Going to the smart new office building of the Canton Bank, passing shops filled with the weird and bizarre merchandise of the Orient, passing blouse-clad forms shuffling by on heelless boat-shaped sandals—truly, I think, this cannot be the old Chinese quarter of San Francisco. These are clean streets, these buildings are handsome, this public school is of concrete faced with bright blue tiles and filled with smiling little Chinese men and women. Sanitary? Yes, but still picturesque. Soon this ancient race will weave exotic mystery and charm about steel-girdered walls and balconies will bulge with great globular lanterns of oiled paper swinging in the wind. For some days to come Chinese ladies with “lily feet” will look down over their tulips upon the crowded street, and wish for the Good Lady Festival that they may wear their brocade and gold abroad, even as “other” women. [Illustration: NEW CHINESE QUARTER. SAN FRANCISCO.] But the old order changeth. New China does not brook the “cycle of Cathay.” And here, in the Canton Bank Building, under the wing of the American National Red Cross, has grown a flourishing offshoot of the Grand Legion of the Red Cross, of the California Branch, that has, in the vernacular of the street, “made good.” For a while—a short while—it was contented to be one detachment: then it became a twin; now its membership has reached about the hundredth mark, with supporting members. We watch this changeling with surprise. It needs no nursing. [Illustration: THE CHINESE RELIEF COLUMN OF THE CALIFORNIA RED CROSS.] Saturday evening, March 27, 1909, saw the hall of the Chinese Presbyterian Church so crowded that a burly policeman had the doubtful pleasure of turning away visitors of both races. Inside was filled with merchants and their families—the men on one side, the women and children on the other. The Consul, in a robe of biscuit brocade, followed by his suite, entered and aroused the interested glances of Caucasian and Oriental alike. Like flowers, bloomed from the dark blue background of the bloused and trousered women, a parterre of babies in cap and gown of purple, blue and rose. Tiny ques and tiny sandals, smiling faces, and not a whimper the long evening through. Under the guidance and by the gracious courtesy of Donaldine Cameron, a noble friend of Chinese womanhood, a choir of Chinese young ladies sang the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Later the audience rose to the “Star Spangled Banner,” most beautifully rendered by Miss Wong in a clear mezzo-soprano. The program—partly interpreted by Mr. Wong, partly in Chinese—closed in a glory of flashlight, the sudden burst raising pandemonium among the baby choir, who were “velly much ’flaid.” A small dog smuggled in under the blouse of Lee Ching, a real boy, supplied the necessary bass for the tiny Celestial singers.